who needs love when the sandwiches are wicked?

( Some more weight loss stuff, etc etc )

Yesterday we went to John Lewis to do the gift list for the wedding. Yeah, we could be ethical and ask for any money to go to charity, or we could ask for money, but to be quite honest my kitchen is mix and match and I have saucepans that the hole is falling out of and yes I AM THAT SHALLOW WHAT OF IT. It was marvellous good fun, actually, and unlike The Ikea Trip Richie and I managed to not bicker over any items. Look at us, being mature. We desperately tried to pick stuff that was a sensible and low price that we actually needed. If people don't buy us anything, that's okay because the main thing is that people come to the wedding, but there we go.

That said, after two hours I had lost the will to live. There is only so much department store one person can take.

I am going to a Seventies party tonight, and I just realised that I failed to buy Twiglets for it. I am genuinely horrified at myself, but at the same time I have no inclination to leave the house again until I actually, you know, leave it. That said I wasn't even going to take Twiglets until I re-watched The Supersizers Do The Seventies so there we go.

Anyway. The party is also fancy dress. Despite having a frankly nifty Romana-In-City-Of-Death outfit (LEGIT SEVETIES OUTFIT, you don't want to know how long it takes to make the hat sit perpendicular to the ground upon my bumpy noggin) this is a party where the biggest other nerd is basically Richie so I don't want to be She Who Turns Up Like A Schoolgirl. I have instead rooted through my personal past and worryingly was able to put together a complete punk outfit in less than a minute. Who's laughing at me now for keeping hold of the spiked dog collar from my goth days which were oh god ten years ago now? I also have an actual vintage shirt that Dad gave me donkey's years ago, one of the West German army ones that never seem to go out of style. Some mad make-up and hair and I'm set.

It's a bit weird, actually going out for New Year's Eve. Normally I stay in and watch Hootenanny, but this year I will actually be putting on clothes and everything. It should be fun, although it does necessitate another night staying at my parent's house, where my sister is babysitting Tiny Wee Amelia who is probably not that tiny anymore but still.

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope that 2012 treats you all well.

I am hathycol on Dreamwidth, for those interested and recently added. I crosspost everything, but have currently just refused to renew my paid account, which ran out today. We shall see what happens.

It is now Christmas, and I have four days off work. I had Plans. They were good plans. Richie has been on nights all week, so last night I went out with work but didn't stay out and drink; instead, I came home early, curled up with some wine, and went to bed late due to a combination of the nieghbours having a mad party and wanting to try and be helpful to Richie when he tries to turn his sleep schedules around today. I was even reasonably calm when party decided to have massive row next to adjoining wall. This is because CHRISTMAS WAS HERE and I was excited, and pleased, to have a Christmas with Richie to look forward to.

Richie came home. I have no idea what happened in the next two hours, but he crawled into bed, then promptly threw up (I have never, ever moved so fast to get a bucket). I obviously got out of bed and found Richie's coat in the bath, covered in laundry powder and water. It's a dry clean only coat. Also found half a bacon and egg MacMuffin in the hallway. No idea what's happened. He is now fast asleep, and snoring, so I figure I'll leave him there until 2.00pm and then wake him up. This sounds harsh. Possibly is.

We were meant to be having a nice meal tonight, with a bottle of wine we'd stashed away. I was really looking forward to a long lie-in. Oh well. I suppose I'll just have to hope he feels a bit perkier when I try and pull him out of bed later on today. Lord knows what I'll do with the ingredients for a three-course meal, the last of which I bought at late night shopping last night. Maybe I'll just cook for myself if Richie still isn't feeling up to it.

Will be away from the internet for the next few days; we're going to my parent's tomorrow, and will come back the day after Boxing Day. Be good, don't break anything.

On Friday I found myself with some unexpected sexism at work. Long story short: we recieved a calender of naked ladies at work. This was from a supplier who genuinely felt it was a real way to ensure repeat custom next year. Distressingly, it probably is for a lot of people. It was rude, sexist, and frankly massively offensive.

Plus, on Friday, I Lost My Shit with the neighbours. I came homne to find two scallies stood on my landing, with bikes. There are lots of scruff marks up the wall now. "Can I help you, lads?" I queried.

"Nah, we're waiting for a friend."

They continued to bang on the door over hallway. I let myself into my flat and then smelt smoke outside the door. I stuck my head out. "THIS IS A PUBLIC AREA AND NON-SMOKING!" I howled. They ingored me, essentially, and kept on banging on the door.

"Let us in ! Your neighbours giving us stick!"

Thoroughly wound up, you can imagine my mood when someone started leaning on our buzzer. I stormed downstairs and flung the door open. "YES WHAT?!"

A frankly terrified young scallie lad, no more than fifteen, peered back at me. "Er... is Peter in?"

"YOU HAVE THE WRONG FLAT. NEXT TIME YOU HANG OFF SOMEONE'S BUZZER MAKE SURE IT'S THE RIGHT FLAT. NOW TRY AND RING THE RIGHT FLAT AND MAYVE THEY WILL LET YOU IN!"

I slammed the door shut and locked it again and stormed back upstairs.

I thought we might end up getting stick from whatever weird party they were having that appeared to be made up of fifteen year olds. Instead we were left alone. Good.

The weekend was much nicer. I went to Leeds, which was freezing cold, but I saw Tali which was brilliant! We had a good wander around Leeds, and drank lots of coffee and tea and looked around Harvey Nichols which was frankly terrifying. £800 for a dress?! Worth seeing, though. We had lots of chatting, and gossip, and talk of pandas - PANDAS! - and dodged shocking crowds. Good times.

Now it is less than a week until Christmas. Richie is on nights, so I am home alone and will be spending tonight having a bath. Rock and roll. Still, it'll all be worth it by the end of the week when I get four whole days off. Can't come quick enough, frankly.

I'm so tired. The weather is vile and foul and work is just a continual thereness, and the baby downstairs will not shut the fuck up (and yes, I am WHINGING about a baby making noises, a baby that is probably ill, I am a MONSTER, whatever, it's not my child, I'm not related to it and yet I appear to be woken up by it more than its actual parents so yes basically WHATEVER I want an unbroken night's sleep) so by about this point every night I am mardy and resisting the urge to lie down on the sofa and sleep, something I attempt not to do as it means I don't sleep through the night and the problem is compounded on the following days so anyway yes.

Er, yes. It's the work Christmas party on Friday. I have mixed feelings about this. It might be fun. Every other work occasion I've been to in the last year has led to me getting shit-faced and vomiting in my parent's bathroom (the only vivid memory from last month's night out was peering up at the toilet bowl from the floor) so I have found myself volunteering to drive in a cunning attempt to not have to drink too much with a cast iron excuse, as well as spend minimum time with Damn Fool Boss on Saturday as I can then dart off and abandon people if need be. I really enjoyed last years, and I did that mostly sober, so perhaps this might just work. I have to share a room with the accountant this year, though, a fact I am not amused about. Hmmph.

Despite about above grumpiness, I am actually feeling rather festive this year. The tree is up, the Dalek is festooned in purple tinsel (WHAT) and there are even very small presents under the tree. This is my first Christmas with Richie (we've always been hundreds of miles apart on previous years) and he's going to have an El Cheeto family Christmas, which my mum is rather sweetly FREAKING THE FUCK OUT about. Her first Christmas away from home led my an auntie of mine making her pureed sprouts. Apparently mum cried for an hour. This is leading her to be very insistant that we include Richie's family traditions, which appear to be the same as ours. (Drink too much from too early in the day and gently graze on anything that takes your fancy, basically). But I'm looking forward to it, as I reckon I'm a winner all around on the whole thing. Also Mum is making trifle and there will be a cheese board. OH YES.

"I've re-arranged that delivery to be on Saturday," Richie said.

"Oh, good," I replied. We are having some delivery difficulties, you see. At one point stuff used to just be left outside our door. Sometimes they would be left with Downstairs Below Us, who we at least know on the basis that he helped carry our sofa up the stairs, I crashed into their car and their babu wakes us up on average four times every night. Anyway, they took the signed stuff for us and either bought it upstairs or nabbed us on our way in from work. GOOD TIMES. The building is now more full, though, and we have a suspicion the new neighbours across the way nicked something from us. We know this because it was bloody well signed for!

Anyway, this parcel that failed to be left on Wednesday was for a cake stand for our wedding. EXCITING TIMES. I was happy to go and pick it up from the post depot this morning, but hey, re-delivery sounded good. Post would get here, I would then get showered and go out and ironically get to the Post Office before it closed in order to send out bridesmaid dresses and then do my other bits and bobs that need doing today.

Instead am still in my pajamas as worried that when I do hop in the shower the postman/lady will turn up and I will be all naked and there will still be no cake stand. The wedding is months away, we didn't even need the bloody cake stand, but it was on sale and is all pretty
and stuff.

Am still in pajamas and failing to do anything at all with my day now. Not that I object to sitting in my pajamas on a Saturday, surfing the web and re-reading The Pillars Of The Earth but such is life.

I've had the most lovely twenty-four hours.

Friday was, above all things, an Okay Day at work. There was a Tesco order, which was bad, but we got flowers from a haulage firm for "the ladies in the office" which was actually a lovely gesture. I managed to leave work a few moments early, and came home for a last quick clean around before heading out for takeaway, while Richie went to grab Ann and Louise from the train station.

We ended up having a really lovely chilled out evening. We watched Children In Need and giggled a lot (mostly not at the telly, that was rubbish) and ate far too much food. It was a great opportunity to have a really good catch up, and talk absolute nonsense for a long time. Plus, it's the first time I've ever stayed awake for all of Children in Need!

Both Louise and Ann stayed overnight, and although Richie has been in work today the three of us had a lovely day bumbling around a cold and windy Southport. We went for tea at the posh tearooms and I ordered an eclair, which arrived with a tiny knife and fork.

"What on earth are these?" I wondered out loud.

"It's a pastry fork," Louise answered.

"... pastry has a special fork?"

The next ten minutes followed genuine bafflement for me as she explained a world of pastry forks, grapefuit spoons ("what on earth do you use to eat grapefruit?" "I don't!") and other random kitchen ingredients. I was pretty sure by the end of it Louise would take me under her wing and tutor me so I could go to the Embassy Ball and be passed off as a lady.

Either way, the eclair was delicious. We also had a wander around the junk shop I take all visitors to, and Ann bought a hotel bell which is a thing of beauty and I await her announcing all of her needs with a small 'ding'.

They've both gone now, which is a shame. I am now alone in the flat and awaiting the chance to curl up with Strictly Come Dancing and have, I must admit, an early night. Rock and roll.

I have to go into Southport town and pick up my wedding shoes and my new glasses which might even be the right prescription this time. Instead I am desperately hungover and having a great deal of difficulty with the concept of 'getting off the sofa' let alone 'walk to places'.

I need to stop going on work nights out. They now represent my lone hangovers. Cannot drink like I am a student anymore, and throwing up at my parent's house got old about five years ago. Self is social secretary. Buggar. Really should start acquiring willpower around wine.

I had a chat with Dad this morning about the fact he won't be giving me away as am not property and unless the chaplain insists, I will be changing the wording. I have no issue with Dad walking me down the aisle as Mum would just be a wreck and cry and I really need someone to make sure I don't fall over; it's literal and metaphorical support, basically. Dad seems okay with not giving me away, but it was mildly awkward anyway. I'm having a fairly traditional wedding, well, a lot of it sits uncomfortably with my feminist principles at the best of times, but we're dumping the stuff that doesn't work for us, and altering other traditions to suit us more. Hence the fact I am picking up fab green shoes this afternoon. Okay, I just want to show them off. But, um, yes, feminist theory and all that.

(For those that don't know, both Richie and I are changing our name after the wedding and mutually double-barrelling on the basis that he wants us to share a name, but I don't want to lose the main body of my name. And hyphenating looks like fun, complicated forms be damned. This is the sort of approach we're taking to the whole thing - mutual compromises and adapting tradition where we need to.)

I also talked to my mum this morning about wedding underwear. If I never have to have that conversation again that would be splendid, ta.

Someone is moving in across the corridor from us. I'm devastated. Richie and I have worked very hard to keep that flat empty, as one of the windows looks into our spare room. Bang goes wandering in there naked looking for a towel.

So, Boots ballsed up my first eye test. The numers are quite astonishingly different on the second one. "We'll fix this," they said soothingly. "BUT I LIKE THESE NEW GLASSES I PICKED AND ALSO I HAVE NO MONEY," I basically wailed, but they're going to put new lenses in the frame I picked from Glasses Direct. Hopefully this set will not make the numbers be jumpy. We'll see. For the meanwhile I am back on the lenses where I can't see anything in the distance. Hurrah!

So on that note Richie and I are going to Blackpool to see the Illuminations tonight. He has never been before. I have been before. It is not that exciting, but it is a lovely clear day and I've had the afternoon off work which I have squandered via exploring Southport and finally finding a fruit and veg shop which means I can start putting some real work into beating the hegemony of supermarkets in my life. I have also re-read a lot of Unseen Academicals. This means I am chilled enough to take a drive to Blackpool for overpriced fish and chips and garish lights. GOOD TIMES. Seriously, though, people come to visit me and in this case live with me and all I ever end up doing is going "DA DAAAA! BLACKPOOL! VEGAS OF THE NORTH!"

"Can you smell burning?" I asked Richie, curious as to why there was a plastic burning smell over what should have been the lovely smell of a roast dinner.

"No, smells good to me..." he mused, and I suddenyl had a moment of realisation and leapt forward.

"OH GOD THE KETTLE!"

Yes. I managed to set the kettle (well, the wire) on fire. The kind where I am going to have to buy a new kettle tomorrow. Worse, the kind where I am going to have to make tomorrow morning's cup of tea with a pot of water boiled on the hob.

Fail, self. Fail.